


share each other like an island

by tosca1390



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark, the last of her house, brought her mount to a halt two miles from the gates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	share each other like an island

**Author's Note:**

> follow-up piece to **in creases of distance dark places**

*

 

The smoke rising from King’s Landing could be seen from miles away. Dragons have returned for the first time in centuries; there was no one brave enough to question a queen with the blood and bone of dragons at her small hands, no matter how young she was or how far she traveled.

Sansa Stark, the last of her house, brought her mount to a halt two miles from the gates. In the last weeks and months, she saw blood and gore, men dying in battle, and did not flinch. She and the knights of the Vale brought up the rear of the Queen’s forces, taking care of the last of Baratheon’s men. They were expected in King’s Landing by sunset, to help stabilize the city.

Here, just outside the court that had scarred her so, her hands shook on the reins of her horse. The men ride on past her, for she was their leader only in name; they had orders from their new queen, and they did not need a girl of barely eight-and-ten to hold them to their oaths.

“My lady Stark, are you well?”

She clenched her fingers around the thick leather reins, sparing a glance to her right. Jaime Lannister, sworn to her late mother to bring her North and home, had yet to leave her men, leave _her_. She remembered then, as she did so often in the darkness of her tent with just her serving lady sleeping near, the feel of his mouth on hers. He had pressed her into the tree trunk, his mouth trailing the line of her throat.

“I had not thought I would return here, ser,” she said quietly after a moment. Her eyes strayed to the plumes of dark smoke as they curled through the grey sky; she wondered if Jon had gotten his revenge on the Red Lady, on Stannis. “I was sure I was free of this place.”

At her side, his horse huffed and shifted on his hooves, eager to move forward. Jaime reined him in, murmuring to him under his breath. “Your stay here will be brief, lady. And far more pleasant than yours was in the past,” he said. His mouth nearly always had the smallest curve to it, a smirk that could be pleased or patronizing.

“I hope so,” she murmured.

“Seeing as how you come to be unmarried, rather than sold off at Littlefinger’s will, I imagine it will be happier than you anticipate. And you have no need to worry of being murdered in your sleep.”

She fixed a hard gaze on him, mouth thinning. “And you do?”

He smiled, a sharp cut across his handsome face. Blood dried rust-red along his throat and leathers from a skirmish yesterday. “As I said, my lady; this is not the King’s Landing of before. I doubt I shall sleep safely any one evening.”

With that, he clicked at his horse and rode ahead, to lead the men onwards through the gates. After a moment, Sansa urged her mount onward at a slower pace. She passed through the gates at last, still unable to quell the sickness settling at the pit of her stomach.

*

Her third night inside the Keep, she could not sleep. Her ladies, borrowed from the Queen, offered her milk of poppy but she refused, and took to the corridors. It reminded her too much of Lord Robert, Sweetrobin; the smell turned her stomach.

She walked the corridors between her chambers and Margaery’s old ones, down towards the outside ramparts. It was funny, how she remembered these halls. In a sharp bit of hindsight, Tyrion had not given her the chambers from her previous stay at King’s Landing, but she felt hunted and watched in them all the same.

The nights were still cool, cooler than the Southrons were used to. Winter was here, had been here for some time. It was not the winter she knew, or she wanted; she breathed in the air as she stepped outside, and wished for more trees, the godswood. She thought of Winterfell, how far she seemed from it now despite the victories. The Freys and the Boltons were dead, and soon she would rebuild her home on their bones.

“We meet here again, my lady.”

Sansa tucked her thick wrap more snugly around her shoulders as she glanced to her left. There, to no surprise of hers, stood Jaime Lannister. He looked as rested, being back in this castle, as she did.

“I doubt I will sleep a full night here,” she said as he walked over to join her.

Together they faced out, their arms leaning on the stone ledge. No stars lingered in the night sky, just the thick blackness of clouds and winter. Sansa thought she might hear the dragons from afar, huffing and rattling in their sleep.

“My whole life, all I wanted was to come here,” she found herself saying, her fingers tucking stray wisps of hair back into her braids. “I remembered the songs, the poetry of the heroes who came from these walls, and I thought that was how life was supposed to be. I thought I would never get that in Winterfell.”

He huffed, a sharp sound in the soft darkness. “Lucky you, for realizing those dreams so early.”

“Don’t worry, ser,” she said coolly, sparing him a glance. “Littlefinger, your sister, Joffrey—they cured me of any dreams I had of living a life like those songs.”

He wet his lips, glancing at her for a moment before he looked back out to the dark skies. “I never wanted songs. My dreams were simpler than that,” he said.

“King’s Landing cured you of those, too,” she said, fingers rubbing against the warm wool of her wrap nervously.

“It is quite the cure-all, for kings and ladies and lords alike.”

She leaned in, her shoulder ghosting his. “Now, all I want is home.”

He said nothing in return. In the darkness his profile was just smudges and shadows; but she knew the lines of his face, thought on them often in the darkness of her chambers.

“And you, ser? The battle is done. One task is left before you. What do you want?” she asked after a moment, a faint trembling in her fingers.

His face turned to hers then, smooth in the dim light. “I’ve learned it’s better to want nothing, my lady.”

“Sansa,” she said without thinking, a flush curling up her throat. “I asked you to call me Sansa.”

His good hand, the hand of flesh and blood, suddenly curled at her waist. It was the closest she’d been to him since that evening under the tree, rain in the air and his mouth on her skin. She could feel the heat of him through the thick nightgown, his thumb pressed to the curve of her hipbone. Eyes fixed on his, she touched her mouth, thinking of the warmth of his.

“Sometimes, I don’t think you know what you ask for,” he said after a moment.

“I think you should leave that up to me,” she said sharply.

His hand tightened on her waist as he leaned closer. Her hand fell to his chest, fingers tangling in the thick fabric of his shirt at the neck. She wanted this, in a way she absolutely hadn’t when Littlefinger was this close; she knew the difference between forced compliance and _want_.

She was grown up now, after all.

This time, he made the first move. His mouth fit against hers, warm and firm, as an arm fit itself across the small of her back, his gold hand a cool distraction. His good hand moved to her hair, fingers weaving into the thick braids. She opened her mouth to his, letting him press her back into the stone ledge with a sigh.

“You can’t want nothing,” she whispered into his mouth, her eyes fixed on his.

He tilted his head back from hers, green eyes hazy and dark. “I want many things,” he said, voice thick and ragged. “But I know that what I want and what I can have are very different things.”

With one last squeeze of her waist, he pulled back. She leaned back on the ledge for a moment of steady strength. He bowed at the waist, hair falling across his brow, and then left as he came, down the length of the ramparts before turning into the Keep.

She stood outside for long moments after, letting the cool air settle against her skin, subduing the flush to her skin and the racing of her pulse.

*

“It doesn’t have to be Lannister.”

Jon’s words, quiet and somber, caught her off guard. They walked together in bright sunlight through the courtyard, her arm tucked into his elbow. It had been nearly a month since she entered the gates of King’s Landing, and she had yet to leave. In her blood a longing for winter lingered. She still woke in the middle of the nights more often than not, sure that Joffrey or Cersei were haunting her, waiting for her to slip up. Their fingers and hands curled invisibly over her throat and wrists every time she feasted in the great hall with the Queen, King, and their court.

“What do you mean?” she asked after a moment.

Jon stopped, leaning an arm against the stone ledge. He was much-changed since the last she had seen of him in Winterfell all those years ago. Betrayal and loss had etched themselves into his gaze and face, but there was a new strength that radiated from the set of his shoulders.

Now, she wished she had been kinder to him when she was younger, kin as they were; her mother had been cruel there, and her father silent on the truth where he should have spoken. But that was all in the past now, and he held her no ill will; indeed, when she had arrived in their encampment from the Vale, the Lannister brothers flanking her sides, Jon had been the first to greet her with a warm embrace and something like a gasp of relief. _Sansa, my sister_ , he had whispered in her ear, and she had nearly burst into tears.

“He doesn’t have to be the one to see you back to Winterfell. I could send him to the Wall instead. Give him the courtesy they would not show our father,” he said evenly.

Ghost, who had been running ahead of them and their leisurely pace, came bounding back, a flash of white fur. The direwolf stopped in the space between them. Sansa knelt and ran her hands through his thick coat, a lump catching in her throat. It wasn’t so often that she thought of Lady, but now, with Jon’s direwolf a constant presence, she felt it all over again.

“He had nothing to do with Father’s death,” she said after a long moment, raising her face to her brother’s. “And for however many years, he has tried to fulfill his oath to my lady mother, even as she has passed on. I would not take that from him, Jon.”

She found it hard to read Jon, between the thick beard and his dark eyes. He swallowed hard and looked out across the courtyard. “I would take you myself, if I could,” he said. There was a longing in every word; she knew it well, could place it in her own heart.

Rising, she put her hand on his arm, fingers curling in the thick fur. The sun, bright as it was, had no impact on the cool air; though spring was on the way, or so the Queen’s attendants said. Sansa had no need for it; she was born of ice and snow, and to that she would return. “I would have you return when it is rebuilt, with our lady Queen. When Winterfell is returned to its rightful glory,” she said softly.

Jon smiled slightly, covering her hand with his. His smile reminded her of Robb’s, of Arya’s; the ache of their losses had softened but never left her, not in all these years. “You will do well there, Sansa.”

“As you will here,” she said, just as Ghost nuzzled at her leg, nose dampening the thick skirt of her gown.

Jon took her arm to his once more, and they continued their walk along the ramparts. In the courtyard below, Jaime caught her gaze, coming back from a ride. She followed him as he walked towards the keep for a moment, the back of her neck flushing.

“Sansa?”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said with a start, glancing at her once-brother.

His gaze skirted past her just for moment, mouth setting into a hard line. “The Hand has revealed to the Queen and myself all of Littlefinger’s planning and schemes. So if you survived him, I know you can handle anything else,” he said after a moment, watching her with care. “I would only ask you to be careful.”

She tilted her head up and smiled slightly. “You don’t have to worry about that. I always am.”

*

A few days later, Jaime answered her knocks on the third time around.

“Well, the little bird has found her way to the shadows, where the heathens and villains reside,” he drawled, leaning on the door. His body took up the entire open space, small shafts of light from his chambers slipping through into the dark corridor. He was in the lower levels of the keep; not as low as the dungeons, but still.

Sansa rested her hands on her hips, mouth curling despite herself. “I don’t think that’s why you’re down here,” she said.

“Sometimes you can still be quite naïve,” he said. “What do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I have been given leave to go, and you with me,” she said, nervous energy nearly bursting from her fingertips. _Home_ , her blood sang in her veins, sweet and aching; _home to Winterfell_.

Jaime’s face did not change, but she could see the smallest of sparks in his eyes, green and deep. She had been scared of those eyes in his sister and in Joffrey; now, she was not. “I know. Our lord and lady King and Queen summoned me earlier to tell me so. Apparently, I will have command of mostly their men on our journey. Hopefully they will not kill me in my sleep.”

“May I?” she asked impatiently, gesturing at his chambers.

His smirk grew, curling up, but he moved aside with a low bow at the waist. She swept past him, her blue skirt swishing with the movement. Tonight she wore her hair down and curly, a welcome weight on her shoulders. His room was sparsely decorated, the dark furs on the bed the focal point. Next to his bed was his sword, leaning against the wall in easy reach.

“There’s a dagger under the pillows as well. Can’t be too careful,” he said from behind her, a dry sort of amusement in his words.

She looked back at him as he shut the chamber door with a heavy thud. This was as casual as she’d ever seen him, a dark loose tunic, his hair falling in disarray across his brow. “Did they tell you where to go after you have settled me in Winterfell?” she asked.

He walked towards her, stopping just breaths from touching. In the torchlight he looked shadowed and dangerous, the strong lines of his face sharply lit. She thought of that night weeks ago on the ramparts, his hand in her hair. Her fingers twisted in the thick fabric of her skirt as she suppressed the urge to touch her mouth.

“Anywhere but here, my lady. I am not to return to King’s Landing for quite a long time, if at all,” he said.

“I asked you to call me Sansa,” she said. “And I asked you, before, what you want.”

“You did,” he said, something like amusement softening the lines of his mouth.

“So?” she asked. Blood flushed her cheek, the thin skin of her throat, but she kept her chin high; she thought of her mother, of the strength she had always radiated. “I want to know.”

The line of his jaw was tight, his throat corded as he swallowed. “What I want is a reason,” he grinded out.

“A reason for what?” she asked, startled.

“For anything,” he said with a shrug. His good hand was clenched into a fist at his side. “You have Winterfell, and my good brother has his queen. There is very little left for me in this land, Sansa.”

“You don’t know that,” she said after a moment, fingers curling into her skirt.

He gave her a smirk then, a cruel slip of his mouth. “I thought you were done with songs and romantic notions, little bird.”

“I am,” she snapped back. “I think it’s wasteful for someone like you to lose purpose. Your life wasn’t wrapped up in the loss of your family, just as mine isn’t. There’s something more to us than a house and a name, ser.”

 _There has to be_ , she thought but did not say, nerves trembling. Her name would only serve her so well when she arrived North; there would have to be something from within, something just hers to call to the North to her heel. It was something she thought about in the sleepless darkness, when she did not think on Jaime Lannister and his warm mouth.

Jaime looked at her for a long moment, the silence thickening between them. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said finally. “I suppose you have until Winterfell to prove it to me.”

Something in her spine straightened, the corners of her mouth curving upwards. Her arts of convincing were well-practiced. After all, she had beaten Littlefinger at his own game.

“When would you like to leave, my lady?” he asked.

She wet her lips, watching his gaze jump to her mouth. “As soon as possible.”

“I’ll let the men know.” He paused, running his good hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back from his brow. “Is that all you wanted, Sansa?”

The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver right through her. She walked right up to him, her hands falling to rest on his chest. “No,” she said softly, right before his mouth covered hers and his good hand fell to her hair, tangling in the curls at her back.

That night, safely back in her own chambers, she slept through until morning.

*

Two days later, they departed for the North. Only Jon came to see them off in the courtyard in the early morning dawning grey. Sansa had given her goodbyes to the Queen the evening before, and Tyrion had sent her off with a writ declaring their marriage nullified. Whether Jaime had said any farewells, she didn’t know.

As Jaime checked the horses, Jon put his hands to her shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. “We will visit, sister,” he said warmly.

A small part of her heart ached as she kissed him in return; another goodbye to another brother. “Winterfell will be waiting.”

Jon’s gaze traveled behind her, to Jaime. “Discharge your duty well, ser,” he said, his voice cool.

She glanced back just in time to see Jaime’s mocking little smile, his curt bow. Flushing, she tucks her furs more tightly at her throat. Two days later, and the marks from Jaime’s mouth lingered.

With another goodbye from Jon, she mounted her horse. Side by side, she and Jaime set off through the gates of the Keep and through the city. She did not look back, or to the side, where she could feel Jaime’s eyes on her; instead, she kept her gaze forward, to the Kingsroad ahead.

Winterfell was waiting.

*


End file.
